


But It's Near

by Jenwryn



Category: Death Note
Genre: M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-08
Updated: 2009-07-08
Packaged: 2017-10-02 12:49:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rester doesn't approve. Rester doesn't like it. Rester doesn't even know how it <em>began</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But It's Near

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tierfal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tierfal/gifts).



> I can't quite get my head around calling Rester by his real name even though, given that this is his POV, I really should; my apologies for that. |D;
> 
> Submitted to [dn_contest](http://community.livejournal.com/dn_contest)'s "Rester" week.

It all began when... well...

Truth be told, nobody is entirely sure how it began. There's a good chance that Near himself knows, simply because Near is Near – so acutely aware of the world around him, peering at it keenly from beneath the false security of his fringe, his expression declaring that he doesn't care about any of it, his eyes memorising every aspect anyway. Near, however, is the exception. Rester isn't even entirely sure that Stephen knows exactly, unless, that is, the younger man plays his cards an awful lot closer to his chest than Rester has always believed; it doesn't matter how often Rester interrogates him on the matter, Stephen always shrugs and waves his hands around vaguely.

Maybe the process was just too gradual. That might be it. Rester is reasonably sure that he would have put a stop to it, before it had begun, had he seen some kind of evidence suggesting that it was going to. But he hadn't seen it. He'd missed it. He still can't believe that he did. It makes him shift in his mind with discomfort, disbelieving that something so important could have slipped beneath his radar. He'd actually asked Halle once, over coffee, when he was passing her the sugar and she was passing him the cream, whether _she'd_ suspected what was happening – she'd just smiled, that smile of hers that Rester finds so sad and so beautiful, and she'd confessed that she'd _wondered._

Wondered, so, but Rester hadn't even done that much. It itches at his skin. Some nights he writes his resignation, only to shred it in the morning. Part of him loathes it. Part of him says he should loathe it even more. The words are there on the delicate pages of his old Bible, tucked beneath his pillow for his hand to rest upon when he sleeps, and they tell him, print black and white, clear as a summer morning, exactly how much he ought to loathe the very concept. It's just not right. The two of them. Like that.

But it's Near.

It's Near, and it's what Near wants. And Rester has realised, at some time during the long nights where he can't sleep for the ancient words burning into his brain, that he can barely even remember a time when he would have so much as attempted to put his foot down and deny Near something he wanted. Because Near makes Rester wonder what it would have been like to have had a son of his own. Because Near makes Rester feel like he's gained one by default. Because Near makes Rester want to find some way to push a bit of hope into a world much too dark and narrow for someone so young, and the thin pages of his Bible are confounding him for the first time in his life.

It's also because Near, despite appearances, actually asks for very little. Oh, there are his toys, that goes without saying, but the boy replaces the one with the next seamlessly, restlessly, almost impatiently. He doesn't appear to care about them on any meaningful level and Rester rather suspects that they're more to keep his hands occupied than anything else – a way to channel out the superfluous thoughts his too-brilliant brain provides him with. Only the few toys left over from his childhood are treated with any genuine care, especially the little robot with the name scratched on its foot, the name which wasn't Near's own when he was tiny, but which is now, and that, perhaps, is more symptomatic of the boy's entire life than anything else.

Maybe, deep down, that's why Rester hadn't said anything when he'd first found out for certain, though. Maybe he'd thought that this, too, would be like Near's everyday toys – exchangeable, forgettable, soon to be pushed to the side and neglected. Maybe he'd felt a sliver of pity for Stephen, who would no doubt be shunted to some other branch of the organisation, but that had been that, and Rester had known that he would be glad when the young man was out of his sight. He found it slightly hard to meet Stephen's eyes, given the images they now conjured up in his mind.

The problem is, it _hasn't_ passed.

And so Rester had effectively missed that chance to halt it, too.

And now...

And now he barely even sees it anymore. Not in any meaningful way. It's just there, at the edge of his vision, and it doesn't hurt him, so he doesn't speak of it. There are things he can't do because of it – he can't open the first half of the book beneath his pillow, because he hates the crooked guilt it spins in his guts, reminding him cruelly that he hasn't done what his morals tell him he ought to have done – but he's grown resigned to that. Because it's Near. And because there's a certain innocence to it, as much as his faith objects to the adjective in the context. But that's what it is. There's a whiteness to it. Near, his small fingers twirling absently at Stephen's dark hair. Stephen, stifling his yawns and working late because Near has fallen asleep against his shoulder, and he doesn't want to risk waking him. Near, two small dots of pink blossoming on his cheeks, laughing so lowly that it's almost inaudible, when Stephen thinks they're alone and tickles him. Stephen, his breath catching in that awed way, whenever Near thinks they're alone and leans up to kiss him on the mouth, or the forehead, or the collar of his shirt.

Rester can't not see it, and so he simply sees nothing at all.

Part of him would like Stephen to ruin it, though, would like Stephen to do something, anything, which would enable Rester to swoop down with righteous wrath and banish the young man forever. And he would, at the slightest excuse.

Stephen never gives him an excuse.

And Near... Near pushes Stephen around, and plays games, and sulks when when Stephen refuses him something (Rester and Halle are almost envious, because Stephen _can_). And Near pouts, and smiles, and acts coy, and wraps Stephen around his little finger, and grins with utter delight when he realises that Stephen has managed to trump him at something. Stephen cradles Near close, and the emotions on his face are so easy to read that it's almost embarrassing. 

Near loves right back; Near takes it for granted. 

And that, perhaps, Rester thinks, is the entire problematic point. That is the consummate reason why he can't put his foot down, why he can't explain to the boy how wrong he thinks this all is because... because Rester has seen it in Near's eyes. Rester has seen that Near has complete and utter faith that Stephen is going to be there, day after day, week after week, month after week. There, always, and his.

Rester can't take be the one to take that away from the boy, can't be the one to break his fragile happiness, not even to save his own soul.

Because it's Near.


End file.
